


The Road from Ubersreik

by Phantasmal_Salp



Category: Warhammer Fantasy
Genre: Prequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-26 17:51:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 9,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20934281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phantasmal_Salp/pseuds/Phantasmal_Salp
Summary: A series of drabble fics related to the protagonists of Vermintide 2.In the second game, each character has three potential careers that represent paths they went down after the events of Ubersreik in the first game.  These stories aim to explore the characters' thoughts and feelings as they went down those paths.





	1. Markus Kruber - Mercenary

Kruber looked in the cracked mirror, tipping his hat a bit more. Yeah, like that . . . looked pretty good, didn't it? He smiled a bit, but then closed his mouth as he realized it made him look a bit less menacing - and, well, his teeth weren't in that great a shape.  
Ah, that was fine. No one ever said a good merc had to have nice teeth! Didn't hurt when looking for a good gal to spend the night with, but a bit of coin helped a hell of a lot more.  
Now he'd just need to get some more coins. He could earn it, his sword-arm was still in great shape.  
Thoughts of his future free company flooded his mind. Taal, he was really gonna do it! After avenging Helmgart, saving Ubersreik, he'd had sell-swords by the dozen begging to be in his group!  
Especially if Sienna was along. Most wizards still bothered him on some level, but she was a good egg, if a bit too happy with the burning. But that was fine, not like she was gonna burn him up! I mean, there had been a couple close calls, when she'd been spell-flingin', but . . .  
Nah, it'd be fine. Better than fine.  
He quashed uneasy thoughts down. He didn't like to look down there, not if he could help it. Too much alcohol would always get him looking back. Especially if it was the cheap stuff.  
No more of that for him! He'd get good Tilean wines in the future! Or Bugman's! Hm, maybe if he got enough of that, Bardin would join his band, too . . .  
If he had three of the Ubersreik Five, that'd let him raise his prices even more . . . He knew without even asking that neither Saltzpyre nor Kerillian would ever go in on this. They had standards that were way too high, in more ways than one.  
Ah, he wouldn't miss em. Life was just a stream of meetings and goodbyes. Best to make the karls you could, and not look back.  
Reaching back up to adjust his hat, see how it looked from a different angle, he realized it'd look a whole lot better if it had a feather, too. A really big one.  
Resigning his commission had been the best thing he'd ever done. Not that he was glad about his lads . . . damn, that was a wound that'd never heal. Good lads, the lot of em. Except Günter. He'd been a real dick, but still, he hadn't deserved to die like that . . .  
His mind went back for a moment. It had been like a hole had been torn in the world itself, leading to pure, terrifying blackness. He'd seen the faces of dozens as they'd been sucked in, and just . . . stopped existing. And he'd been one of them, if Müller hadn't given him a good shove . . .  
He looked away from the mirror, not wanting to see himself anymore. Going to a chair, he sat down and reached for a bottle.  
Just a drink. Just one.


	2. Markus Kruber - Huntsman

The floor always won.  
It was a saying he'd heard his father say more than once - often while laying upon it. After a good season's harvest, or a particularly good deal, he'd buy a heady amount of that golden liquor one of their neighbors used to distill.  
Taal take him, he couldn't remember the bloke's name. He was dead now - long before the Ratmen. No one was even sure what it had been, he'd taken a fever and gone to bed, and never got up.  
But yeah, his father would buy a lot at once. Spent a pretty penny on it, it was better stuff than his own crude attempts at brewing. Would say he was stocking up so it'd last awhile, but then he'd drink most of it in just a week or two.  
Laying on the floor of his own room, watching it slowly spin around him, Kruber often remembered his father.  
By Taal, he hadn't really wanted to turn out like him. Not the worst sort of father, but he'd never been nothin', either. Just a farmer - he raised good cows, but that wasn't the kinda thing that made one famous, not unless they were truly Taal-blessed or somethin.  
Kruber held up a hand, watching it shake. Never used to do that, not before he'd lost his regiment. He hadn't drunk so much back then. Occasionally met the floor, of course, often with some pretty lass in his arms. But it was reasonably under control back then.  
Now he got why his father drunk so much. He'd lost his own parents to Beastmen. Seen their bodies afterwards. Lost his sister and a brother. Some of his own siblings, too, to the pox. All the drinking, it really helped you forget the faces. Blurred them enough that you could tolerate it.  
Some folks chewed the weirdroot, or weird stuff that he'd heard came from far-off Cathay. Too expensive for his ilk, though. Alcohol had to do.  
What was he doing with himself?  
His memories were as blurry at the moment as his vision, but a few things did stand out besides his dad. Sun-dappled forests, where he'd gone hunting. Wasn't exactly legal, right? Being a poacher. But a young lad had to have meat to grow. He'd become a damn fine shot, even won a few unofficial contests with neighbors of all ages. Put an arrow through the eye of a doe at four hundred yards. Forty yards, he corrected himself. Don't go gettin' all showy, even in your head. Drawing too much attention got you in trouble. Especially in your head.  
He needed to keep himself well-grounded. He was the only semi-sane one in the bunch. Lohner was as canny as a bag of weasels, Saltzpyre had his head halfway up Sigmar's rear-end, the Dwarf . . . well, he was a good sort, for a Dwarf. But he'd never gotten those folks, they had their weird ways. Sienna was as much an addict of that fire as he was of alcohol - worse, really. And Kerillian . . . Well, Elves were a hell of a lot more of a pain in the ass than he'd ever imagined. And Taal don't get him started on that creepy old bat Oleysa! The way she looked at him . . .  
He shuddered. He didn't want to be around any of em, really. They were great mates in a fight, but beyond that they were a hopeless lot.  
Like him, really. Taal save him, what should he do . . . ?  
Taal . . .  
The god of his ancestors was often something he just said as an exclamation. Sure, sometimes he thought about Him, but most of the time it was just a learned habit.  
But those sun-dappled forests . . . He kept thinking of them at odd times.  
Maybe it was more than him remembering good times. The freedom, the escape from what others expected from him. It was . . . Well, in a lot of ways, it was what Taal represented, didn't it?  
Maybe it was a message to him.  
He knew he'd feel stupid about it later, but tears welled in the corners of his eyes. It wasn't like he could just run off, not when there was still big important stuff to do. Folks to help, or at least avenge. But maybe he could do it in Taal's name. For real, not just sayin' words. Then, when it was over, he could go off and live alone like he wanted. No one else to worry about, no one to worry over him. Just be free, and die alone when the time came.  
Praise to Taal, Lord of the Wild Places. The prayer came more easily when he really meant it, and he said it again and again, as a promise to himself and to his god.


	3. Markus Kruber - Foot Knight

Damn his eyes, a knighthood.  
"Yer old man would cry if he saw you now, Kruber lad," he said to his own reflection in the cracked mirror.  
It was something he'd never even dreamed of. Lied about, once or twice, to impress some gals. They were looking to be impressed, though, so he didn't feel bad about that. That was chivalrous, right?  
He wondered just how much the Reikshammer expected him to take that kind of behaviour. His life hadn't exactly taught him a lot of courtly manners.  
But he was a knight! One of the bucket-heads he'd always been annoyed at for being so full of themselves!  
Hell, if he made his way to Nuln, he could probably get introduced to Countess Emmanuelle! He'd always wanted to lay eyes on her, though even in his wildest dreams did he consider more than that. After all, the Reikshammer weren't exactly the Reiksguard. They fancied themselves well, had more than a few accolades under their belt, but had never single handedly turned a battle or saved an Emperor.  
He grinned in the mirror, reaching up to spin the end of his stylish mustache. At least, the barger-surgeon had told him it was all the rage in Altdorf. He hadn't been back there in a bit to check.  
The sides of his head felt a bit bare, though, without his mutton chops. They'd been great for staying warm, but not so great for getting a pot helm to stay on right.  
What a boring thing it was. He'd definitely need to get himself a nicer helmet. Maybe a fancy gromril one! Bardin would probably call him a Dwarf-friend, right? That could get you a lot of places in a Dwarf hold, just as a knighthood did in the Empire.  
But mostly it needed to have a nice big feather in it. Couldn't look proper and dashing without that, could you?  
He hefted his shield and sword. They were battered in comparison to his new armor, and it wasn't exactly at a mirror's finish, itself. But he'd never been prouder.  
He wanted an ale, wanted one bad. Just to celebrate, of course! But for now, he better stick to wine - much more proper for a knight than ale.  
Shifting around, he had to admit that the armor was at least well-balanced. It wasn't nearly as heavy as he'd thought it might be, and it made him practically a steam tank for toughness! He'd mentioned as much to Saltzpyre, and a part of him wondered why the old man had regarded him so oddly afterwards.  
Had it been Saltzpyre who had recommended him to the Order?  
It was something he'd wondered over. It made the most sense. Victor was probably the only one he knew who a knightly order would listen to. Unless it was Lohner? He was cannier than a sack of Goblins, and Kruber was glad he was on the right side.  
Holding up his sword, he made another pose, shoulder first. Yeah, it was nice and angled well for a good shoulder charge - the "old Kruber bash" he'd called it years ago. Never worked quite as well as he had hoped, then, but he'd only had a single pauldron. Now he had a whole suit of armor. And he was a big lad!  
Yeah, he could probably bowl right through a whole horde of Skaven . . .  
He grinned again, his mind just going back to his fantastic fortune. If he did find his way back to Altdorf, there was a bartender who had thrown him out a few years back that he'd pay a visit to. The man had called him a useless mercenary.  
"Well, it's Sir Kruber now!" he said to the mirror, laughing.


	4. Bardin Goreksson - Veteran Ranger

Carefully and slowly, Bardin pulled down the leaves of the ivy that shrouded him, to gaze out upon the filthy raki. A whole group of them were idling about, clearly up to no good.  
But then, was a raki ever up to anything that was good?  
He was certain not. Turning his head the merest fraction, he looked to his companion, and nodded.  
The wutelgi nodded back, barely perceptibly. Admirably still, in this kind of situation, at least. Not doing any of those silly elgi flippy dance-attack moves. At least not until the blades started swinging. Then she could do all she wanted, as far as he cared.  
The wind was blowing the stink of the rats to his nostrils. He wished, sometimes, that he hadn't been born with such a nose - it had a subtle curvature that humans missed, that many Dawi took as a sign of ill-fortune. Few truly believed it, but all took it as a bad sign. It hinted that a Dawi had a future out under the open sky.  
And while most of his kind considered that terrible, bordering on a perversion, it worked out well enough for him, hadn't it? He did indeed like being in the open, most of the time. Not that he minded being in a proper Dwarf hold, of course! But just try telling a Longbeard that the fresh air did one good. A whole lot of grumbling, you'd get for your troubles.  
He hefted his crossbow slowly. It wasn't the motion he worried that might spoil their ambush - raki had terrible vision, especially in daylight - but the sound. Their mangy, filthy ears could pick up the shifting of a chain mail link at a hundred paces! At least, if they weren't being cowardly and pretending they didn't hear anything in the hopes that trouble might not come their way.  
He had a great big ugly black rat in his sights.  
With a few hand signs, he signaled Kerillian just which one he was aiming at, and which one she should target.  
Her black eyes pitted him with a glare that made clear she knew exactly which one he was aiming at, and that she was aiming at another.  
He almost chuckled. She was a foul-tempered one, but it had grown on him.  
Or maybe this all just felt right in a way - not being comrades with a slippery Elf specifically, no, but just having comrades in a war against incredible odds. Relying on their wits and the strength of their arms to carry the day!  
He let out a snort of breath. It was enough of a signal.  
His crossbow kicked, the stout chord twanging forward to launch the bolt. He heard the sound of her bow also loose.  
The ears of the nearest raki twitched; it heard the sound, but even it didn't have enough time to react.  
His bolt took the Stormvermin through its eye, punching straight through and out the other side. It staggered to the side with the blow, the bolt sinking into the tree it was leaning against, pinning it upright, as he had intended.  
He wanted to see how the wutelgi topped that!  
Her arrow took the other black rat through the back of its neck, the arrow just stopping in the throat. The broad-headed arrow was at such an angle, his keen eyes could see as it spun and fell, that it was fully blocking its throat.  
Damn elves and their showing off!  
Regardless, the Skaven weren't going to miss the death-stink of their warriors. They began chittering, some angry, and some in panic.  
She clicked her tongue. "He could have yelled to alert others!"  
"As if that racket he was making as he fell wouldn't have alerted half the umgi Empire!" he shot back.  
They had their melee weapons out now; his axe, and her sword. The Skaven were charging, the black hunger over-taking their weak minds. Where they had been cowardly, now they'd fight to the death. Bleeding monsters starved their own people just to make them fight better . . .  
Bardin yelled a Khazalid oath as he crashed into the first few clan rats, his axe chopping strong and true. Rat heads were split and chopped, limbs hacked off while still clutching their rusted scrap-iron weapons.  
The Elf was killing her own share, it was true. He saw her pull one of her fancy maneuvers and take out her bow to shoot a more distant Stormvermin rushing in, before smoothly going back to her sword to parry a blow.  
Pah! He didn't need to do such fancy tricks, some good axe work was all these raki were worth!  
Yet despite his annoyance, he was having the time of his life, in a way. It wasn't healthy for a Dawi to enjoy things that took him so far from home, but Grimnir take him . . . he loved it.


	5. Bardin Goreksson - Ironbreaker

Krut, it was heavy! Bardin didn't mutter any clear words as he moved the crate, content to merely grumble in annoyance.  
He didn't feel annoyed, though. It was hard for him to put into words how he felt, to be quite honest. Khazalid, for all its perfection, maybe sometimes wasn't the best for expressing certain feelings a Dwarf rarely, if ever had. Of course, why would they need to put name to things so rare! Leave that kind of silliness to Elves and men, they often loved to sit around thinking of new ways to feel!  
The crate had been delivered by a mule-drawn cart belonging to one of the Dwarves of Ubersreik, a wealthy merchant by the name of Gotren Goldhammer. Long time back they had been mighty warriors, but now their shields were dusty and their hammers of gold instead of gromril. And through the convoluted generations, they owed his family a favor. Not enough to have done this for free, mind. But enough that they'd do it at all.  
The courier Dwarf hadn't even given his name. Nothing about this delivery sat well with him, and from his long beard, Bardin gathered that he didn't approve of Bardin, his ways, or his delivery. And certainly not the mules! No Dwarf in his right mind liked such bizarre and unpredictable creatures.  
But he'd done his duty . . . and it was time for Bardin to do the same.  
A dwarven crate was, as anyone who knew anything might expect, far tougher than a human crate. Opening this wasn't going to be as simple as removing a few nails.  
In a mere hour, Bardin proudly surveyed his handiwork. That human barkeeper had offered to help him, but while he liked Loehner, this was far too personal.  
Taking the lid off, he kept all of the precious and perfect screws he had removed, putting them in a pouch. Never knew when they might come in handy, even if just for trading to another Dwarf.  
Reaching in, he sifted aside straw and cunningly-designed wooden bracers that kept the overall weight down while keeping the contents from shifting in transport.  
Finding the first piece, he took it out.  
It wasn't dusty, the gromril helm. Someone had maintained it perfectly. His keen Dwarf eyes told him that it wasn't just a recent thorough cleaning, either. This had never been dusty.  
The thought helped his deeply-set feelings of shame come bubbling forth in his mind, though he showed nothing on his face. Regardless of how he had been a disappointment, his family still cared for him on some level. That this armor had been kept at all was a great sign of that. That they had maintained it so well . . .  
He struggled with the thoughts and feelings, not knowing how to put word to them.  
It didn't matter. He was ready to take up the mantle again, the one he had discarded years ago.  
With great care, he removed every piece of the gromril armor from the crate, setting them on the bed.  
Then he began to put them on.  
The armor of an Ironbreaker was a mighty thing. Crafted by the greatest of smiths, the metal gromril was the strongest wrought by living hands. It was not given out lightly.  
It still fit him. He had been worried that his middle might have grown a bit too much or gotten too thin for it to be comfortable. But with the issues that had weighed on him back then, he had forgotten just how comfortable a good suit of Dwarven metal even was.  
Pulling on the last pieces, he then put the helm upon his head.  
He was Bardin Goreksson, and once again he donned the mantle of an Ironbreaker. Let his enemies beware, and his friends take heart. Aye, even the Wutelgi . . .  
He would not fail again.


	6. Bardin Goreksson - Slayer

Damn human umgak. Couldn't even make a razor worth a damn!  
Razors were important to a Dawi. None worth his ale would let a shoddy lump of iron anywhere near his beard. Hair, maybe, but by Grungni, not his beard!  
His hair was all he was after now, what little there was. He could use his axe, but right now it wouldn't be right. He barely felt worthy of them.  
The nicked and chipped blade sawed at his hair. He kept at it, working the blade until it had cut off a shock of his brown hair. He threw it into the fire in which burned so many other things. His cloak, his armor, his helm. His trusty crossbow that he had carried through mountain passes, caves, and manling cities. Great was the number of Grobi and Raki he had skewered on its bolts, but there always more. A dozen, a gross, for every one cut down.  
The crude umgak blade cut into his scalp, but Bardin didn't flinch. He changed the angle a bit and kept cutting as the flames ate away at his crossbow.  
He should have taken the pilgrimage to Karak Kadrin. It was how it was supposed to be done. It just wasn't an option right now, and he couldn't spend another cursed day with this shame upon him.  
The last of his hair was gone, and he began getting off the last bits of stubble. The blade cut him more, but that meant nothing anymore.  
He had failed. He was a shame to his ancestors.  
No physical pain could come close to the dishonor of that. He had never been a proper Dawi - he liked the open air, and had never been as serious nor as secretive as most of his kind.  
For a long time he had deluded himself that finding Karak Zorn would erase all those shames.  
Yet it had simply become his biggest shame of all.  
When you failed even at atoning, what else was there to do but consign yourself to death? To take the Slayer oath . . . it would free his family of the shame of his taint, and when he finally met his end he could finally rest as he could rejoin his ancestors.  
Throwing aside the umgak razor, he stared at his bare chest, the outlines of the tattoos already there, at least where he could reach. He had learned how to tattoo from traveling Umgi performers, and while he lacked the reach and skill to fill them in, he could create the basics . . . he'd have to find someone who could finish it, soon.  
The thought of asking his companions would normally have made him laugh, but he couldn't feel any mirth right now. Grimgi certainly wouldn't entertain the idea. Sienna would likely set him alight, and Kruber's hands were far too shaky. The thought of even asking the Wutelgi made him snort. She'd probably be as likely to stab him as help him, though he grudgingly had to admit that some Wutelgi had acceptable skills at tatooing themselves.  
He cleared his thoughts. Reaching down, he took up the small bottle he had procured from a Dwarven merchant. Red hair dye . . . but not even the kind a Dawi might use out of vanity. No, this kind had only one purpose.  
He opened the bottle, pouring some of the red liquid out onto his hand, and slathering it onto his beard. His hand began to sting and tingle, and as he applied it to his beard, it did the same thing.  
This was meant to hurt. Supposedly the dye was made from some fruit that burned the tongue when eaten, enough to even make the doughtiest Ironbreaker quail.  
When he'd covered his beard, he took up the horsehair crest he had dyed earlier and stuck upright with fat. He added a sticky resin to the bottom, and placed it upon his head. It stood up, and soon would be stuck fast, for however long his wretched life lasted. Shame it had to be horsehair and wasn't his own . . . Just another shame to add to the list.  
Kneeling before the fire, he inclined his head.  
Each Slayer's oath was unique to them, encompassing their shame and their new death oath to Grimnir. But they all went roughly the same way.  
I have dishonored myself. Through a glorious death I will regain my honor.  
He heard a twang. Looking into the fire, he saw that the string on his crossbow had snapped. The fire had eaten away at it until it broke. He had expected it to take longer to burn through.  
For a moment, he felt envy. If only all deaths could come so quickly.


	7. Kerillian - Waystalker

By the Gods, the Ratmen stank.  
Kerillian fought to keep from wrinkling her nose at the smell that assaulted them, even through her scarf. It was like a human cesspit and an untended barn, with a spiciness that reminded her of a sick horse. Ach, no, even all that didn't do them justice.  
She glanced down at the Dwarf, peering through the leaves. If the rats kept watch even half as good as her kin, they'd have noticed that leaf moving, and he'd have spoiled their ambush. But he was short, so she supposed he couldn't help it.  
His own stink was, she grudgingly admitted to herself, at least preferrable to that of the Skaven's. Not nearly as offensive, even if it was still within the range of the word.  
Her bow was raised, but not drawn. She was waiting for the Dwarf to pick his damn target, and he was taking his time doing so. Her mind wandered a bit, counting all the Skaven, then counting them again and adding five. It never hurt to assumed there were more of the little monsters lurking somewhere. She focused on listening, but her ears confirmed what her eyes told her.  
It was all a moot point. The Weave told her exactly where they all were. Well, not exactly, but close enough. Their mere presence was like a scratch on the skin, and the severity of the pain they wrought told her just how bad their infestation was.  
It was not bad, not here. Not yet. After they killed them, the Weave would reclaim their tainted bodies. It would poison it, at least a little. That couldn't be helped. But it was still better than letting them run unchecked.  
Bardin finally seemed ready to start, lifting his crossbow with care. He was aware of how good they could hear, at least.  
He signalled her his intentions, and she almost snorted, glaring at him, while he rolled his eyes. She'd been stalking and hunting before he'd been born!  
The Dwarf just seemed amused, and even she had to find some entertainment in it. He was actually of adequate skill, even beyond just being a Dwarf. She'd known some scouts who hadn't been as good.  
She pulled her bow taut. She'd wait for his signal - it'd just be easier to follow his clunky lead than to expect him to keep up with her.  
Bardin snorted as a signal. As easy as breathing she let the arrow fly. His bolt and her arrow struck within a fraction of a second of each other.  
She scowled as she saw how he crudely pinned the Stormvermin to the tree. Even from hear she could hear its death rattle. Hers, meanwhile, was unable to make a sound.  
She made a disapproving sound. "He could have yelled to alert others!" she chided him.  
"As if that racket he was making as he fell wouldn't have alerted half the umgi Empire!" he said back in that obnoxious tone of his he used when he was thinking of it all as a friendly rivalry. Which it sort of was, but it was certainly a contest he'd never be ahead in. Maybe if the contest involved facial hair or being able to walk under objects.  
She amused herself with that as she pulled her sword from its scabbard.  
The Ratmen were on the attack now, and she was pleased for it. Part of her wanted to shoot them down more - it was beyond satisfying to send a well fletched arrow through one of their monstrous ilk.  
They were in full rampage, and she weaved in among them, slicing and slashing, taking off hands that held weapons and slitting throats. The Dwarf was making a loud mess behind her, but that was what he did best.  
A Skaven head flew past her, and she glanced back at him in annoyance. In the same move as she did that, she pulled her bow without thinking, turning back to take aim and loose a shaft into an approaching Stormvermin. The arrow found the gap she had spied in its armor, punching straight through into its heart.  
They weren't a danger, unless in numbers, just annoying in how they always wanted to push in to steal 'glory'. Like any brash young warrior desperate to prove themselves.  
Hearing more than seeing a jagged short sword swinging at her, she smoothly stowed her bow and deflected a jagged dagger with her sword as she drew it.  
The Skaven was thrown off-balance, and she smiled. It was afraid, and rightly so. Kerillian killed it without mercy, looking back at the Dwarf as he dispatched one of the last Skaven with a mighty headbutt that stove in its skull.  
A musical laugh escaped her lips at the absurd sight.  
"Let no one say you aren't good at putting on a show, Dwarf," she said, without her usual barbs. He was chuckling, too, as he scanned for more danger.  
They were all dead, but she felt alive right now. Sometimes, rarely, the pain of being away from Athel Loren faded. Even if just for a moment.


	8. Kerillian - Handmaiden

In dreams of darkness, even a mote of light was welcome.  
As she slept each night, Kerillian saw visions of blood, of doom, of the world's ending. It tortured her with her own helplessness, perhaps even her own complicity, in its coming. For wasn't there always more one could do? A moment spent luxuriating was one not spent trying to stem the tide of Chaos.  
Being driven by hate, by fear, was a terrible thing. How much she had wished, in her youth, not to be driven by those feelings, to wish for a truly higher calling. She hadn't ever found that, and so she had simply found herself alone, prowling Athel Loren and killing those foolish or vicious enough to invade that sanctum. Long had she feared that it was only within those boughs that she could stave off her own madness, or worse, her own fall into being little more than the mindless savages of Chaos.  
Indeed, when she had been exiled, her greatest fear had been how she could survive, alone, under the open sky. What a bitter realization it had been to see that aspect of herself that was like a stunty Dwarf!  
A light, a merest pin-prick of hope, had been all she needed. The voice she had heard that night was not the one that called her to bloodshed and murder, but a sweet one.  
The voice of the Everqueen had been like a flow of a cool waterfall; at once a shock, but in a beautiful way, yet also cleansing and amazing.  
The living embodiment of blessed Isha had seen through all her lies to herself and that she spoke to others. Even in a dream, before her presence Kerillian felt as naked as a newborn baby.  
The Everqueen did not speak, yet communicated all the same. Her soft, sad smile, and pure eyes conveyed everything.  
She had not been born in Ulthuan, but she was a daughter of Isha yet. She had never graced the Everqueen's presence, but she was needed now.  
Become one of my Handmaidens.  
Had it been in the waking world, Kerillian would have thrown herself to her knees. All she could do in a dream was to agree with all her heart. The bridge between her people and their cousins in Ulthuan meant nothing, not to the avatar of Isha.  
You have my loyalty, my blade, and my bow, for as long as you need them.  
She may be cursed, but her soul was now free.  
The hour was growing late. Even in a dream, Kerillian could see how pale Alarielle's hair had become, how weak she had become. Chaos was encroaching upon even the most hallowed of places.  
Realization came to her. You are near, even her thoughts a whisper.  
Alarielle nodded, and at once Kerillian felt the presence of Loren's comforting trees around her. It was merely a moment, a hint of mercy and love. When it faded, it was like having her soul ripped from her body - worse, in a way.  
It was no torture from Alarielle, not teasing or taunting. She was as sure of that she was of the fact that it was truly the Everqueen in her dream.  
"I will not fail you," Kerillian told her, the words still on her lips as she awoke. Sunlight streamed through leaves, dancing across the bark of the tree.  
Dawn had never been more beautiful.


	9. Kerillian - Shade

Kill them all.  
She heard it in her dreams, the voice. His voice. The whisper of the Bloody-Handed God.  
At one time it had been a soft sound, like a breeze blowing through grass. Beautiful, easy to overlook, but there all the same.  
Over time it had grown. The Lord of Murder had spoken to her more and more clearly.  
You are special, the voice had told her. I won't reject you like your own people.  
Khaine.  
He was not one of the gods her people held in high esteem, but the one exalted most by their Druchii cousins . . . those fools who has begun the civil war, so many millenia ago. Their rage would never be sated after their pride had been so bruised, no amount of blood would wash it away. But that didn't stop them from trying.  
Try as she might, she had never shaken the feeling that she was too good at killing. She wasn't even a hunter at hunter, not truly. She was a killer. Each time she gutted a rat, it was an exultation of violence, not a clean kill. Her penance called for death, not brutality, yet the latter is what she did in the name of it.  
Sometimes she wondered if the Spellsinger knew what he had unleashed upon the world outside Loren? He certainly wouldn't care, but she wondered if he knew.  
He had to know. Perhaps it was even the deeper reason for her banishment. An Asrai wasn't a bloody murderer.  
Yet you are more than simply an Asrai, the voice spoke in her dreams. It told her - showed her - so much. An ancestor. Perhaps male? Perhaps female? In the dreams it was impossible to tell, and the way they shifted reminded her uneasily of She-Who-Thirsts. But this was not the foul hand of a Chaos God in her dream. Deep inside, she knew it was Khaine, that he spoke truly.  
Far off, in both time and distance, she saw a city, a city of her dark cousins. She saw death and ruin for its rulers, with some escaping into the night, into the mountains. Into the shadows.  
Those shadows had become their home . . . for some. For others, they had fled further, through time uncounted, until finding a forest.  
And their cousins there had warily accepted them as kin.  
Their shadow hung over her still.  
Part of her balked at the bloodthirst and the shadow. She was not one of the mad Druchii . . . even if one of her ancestors had been.  
Yet they had cast her out, hadn't they? Given her an impossible goal before she could return to Loren's holy forests. The insult and shame burned inside her, feeding her hate.  
Ah, if only the mayflies knew just how strong the feelings ran in her blood! But they were just too simple to ever understand. Their lives just leaves blowing in the wind, all the permanence of insects. She could blink, and they'd all be gone. Even the Dwarf.  
One couldn't be friends for something so ephemeral. How such children could ever believe they were experiencing the fullness of life astounded her.  
The voice would whisper to her again . . . their brief flashes of life did have a purpose, as the perfect sacrifice . . .  
Try as she might, she couldn't make herself truly want to kill them. Even the Dwarf. They had proven stalwart allies.  
A compromise was in order . . . Khaine offered her the way out, a way to embrace her true self and not betray those who trusted her.  
The Ratmen . . . their lives, as wretched as they were, would be her sacrifice.  
How many times already had she slid a knife through gaps in the plates of a black-fur's armor? And oh the sweet feeling of slitting their Warlord's throat in Stromdorf . . . There would be more. Even her dreams without Khaine spoke of that.  
Willingly, she would embrace the shadows.


	10. Victor Saltzpyre - Witch Hunter Captain

This should have been a proud day for him.  
It was a shock, to be sure. He had long ago given up on his aspiration to advance within the Order. He did not struggle for accolades or rewards, so it had never truly upset him that he had become so overlooked for advancement.  
Though, that wasn't entirely true, Saltzpyre admitted to himself. It had upset him some - not out of hubris, of course not. It had been because of the injustice.  
Had others who were worthier than he been promoted, it would have been a non-issue. But he had seen fools and sycophants raised to higher status over himself. They were not pious, devout men. They were cruel men who followed the path of a holy warrior to be able to indulge their twisted sensibilities. Or at least, he had seen that spark within them.  
And why had he been looked over for so long? For daring to speak the truth - that the rat-men were real, that they lived under their feet.  
They could no longer truly deny it, not after Ubersreik. Yet they were trying. In the Grand Theogonist's letter duly granting him the title of Captain, the lettering had been terse, at best. Even with what he had done, what he had stopped, they were grudging. It was not for worthiness they tardily granted him this deserved title, it was pure pragmatism.  
And even within it, there had been a terse warning, hidden between the lines.  
'. . . for your great service in repelling the foul Beastman attack upon the city of Ubersreik . . .'  
Do not make waves over the rat-men.  
They still refused to accept reality, to see the truth. The Skaven could be gnawing upon their flesh and they'd not be willing to accept it. And why . . . ? Were they so scared that they couldn't even consider it?  
The Witch Hunter sighed, and ran a hand over his short-cropped hair. He felt a burning pain in his dead eye, a phantom pain. The mocking phantom pain of the cursed god of the Skaven. He felt it sometimes, but it was not real.  
If he confronted his superiors about their cowardice in the face of reality, the outcome . . . could be dramatic. In the end, it would avail nothing; they would not change their ways.  
Taking his hat up, he set it upon his head. There had been no great ceremony with his promotion. Only the letter, and a metal badge to show his new rank, a symbol of the order that marked him as a captain. He put the badge in the pocket of his coat, then strapped his sword belt on. A brace of pistols, into the deep pockets of his coats.  
They needed him now - the Empire needed him. As much as the Skaven were a threat, the current threat seemed to be from without, and they were many. The rumors worried him, and he had heard as well that the Order had suffered losses already. They were tested with dark times, indeed. If half of the rumors were true, perhaps the darkest.  
But he had his faith. Sigmar was with them, and if he proved himself worthy, if the people of the Empire kept their faith and were strong, then nothing was impossible.  
The Skaven would need time to regroup, even their numbers were not truly limitless . . . But a worm of doubt squirmed in his mind, telling him to not rest easy. Certainly, this was only prelude, the Skaven attack upon Ubersreik.  
He might be down one eye, but he could still see.


	11. Victor Saltzpyre - Bounty Hunter

The man ran, stumbling on a loose cobble, shoving empty boxes and crates out of his way. A clump of grass poking from between the dilapidated stones of the street caught him in his stumble and he fell on his face hard.  
Despite the stunning blow, he kept clawing at the ground groggily, trying to pull himself, get up - just keep moving.  
A metal clicking made him panic more.  
"You have gone far enough," a high, precise voice commanded. "Roll over, but slowly. It would not trouble me to bring in a corpse."  
The man rolled over. He was weaponless - now, at least. There had been violence earlier, a fight he had thought he could win, what with his two bully-boys who had never failed him. The bounty hunter before him had quickly proven otherwise.  
"I didn't do anything wrong," the man said.  
The Bounty Hunter did not seem to care. He had a heavy, multi-barrel repeater pistol in his hand, which clicked as he rotated the cylinders. When it was in place, he took a folded sheaf of parchment from his pocket.  
"The City of Ubersreik has issued an edict calling price-gouging a treasonous offense. And you have gone well beyond that, haven't you, Josef?"  
"I have done nothing of the sort! I am an honest businessman!"  
"You stand accused not just of price-gouging the survivors of this city, but of assassinating officers of the law, and public officials who were investigating your criminal network."  
"Nonsense!" the man replied, panic in his voice.  
The bounty hunter did not reply. "Ah, it seems I missed a detail. You are not required alive, after all."  
He leveled the pistol. The man screamed, and he fired two quick shots.  
Victor Saltzpyre hefted his gun. The streets of Ubersreik were like that of an abandoned city, now. Since the attack of the Ratmen, those who survived had been leaving if they could. Those who couldn't had been struggling to keep themselves and their families fed.  
The city would never truly recover, not in a hundred years. And there were now other vermin gnawing its corpse.  
Pushing up the front plate of his helmet, Saltzpyre's lips pursed in disgust as he looked at the corpse before him. He needed only the man's head, to prove his identity. His investigation had been necessarily brief, but was incontrovertible. Especially with how the man had tried to get his thugs to murder him.  
The money he would gain from this bounty would go far to fund his war. For some months now, his stipend from the Order had been severely restricted, and he knew he could not count on the church for any real aid.  
Putting his pistol down, he took a heavy-bladed short falchion out, and grabbed the head of the corpse. The man's fleas were already abandoning their host, leaping away. Grimacing, he began to hack at the neck.  
It was not stealing from what was left of Ubersreik's people to take the job. The money they'd save by scaring these sorts would more than make up for their payment to him.  
And he would keep fighting and working to see that there were no more Ubersreiks.  
The Order pretended that it had been Beastmen who attacked the city. Those who said otherwise risked their reputation and even lives by saying otherwise. But no one who had been there could accept that story.  
The head was severed, and he hoisted it up to look in the face. The man's mouth was caught in a rictus not unlike one of the Ratmen.  
Saltzpyre grimaced again and reached up his free hand to close his visor. There was a long road ahead of him, hunts to do. And he would not stop hunting the vermin.


	12. Victor Saltzpyre - Zealot

The lash bit whirred through the air in an arc before finding flesh. Small bits of metal were woven into the ends of some of the frayed ends, one for each of his worst sins. They tore into his skin, leaving bright red wounds to punctuate the lighter red stripes. This was the first stroke upon his back on this day, but old marks attested to previous penance.  
"Sigmar, bless this sinner and forgive his many failings," Saltzpyre intoned.  
Another lash.  
"Guide his arm in striking down those who will not repent their evil ways."  
The air was cut again, and the lashes cut particularly deep, making his body shake with the pain. His voice, however, did not even tremble, and he kept staring up, in the direction of the sky. While inside, he could not see it, but he knew Sigmar was looking down upon him in judgment.  
He must not fail.  
"Aid me in destroying the foul heretics who threaten your realm."  
Lash.  
"Strengthen my limbs so that I may not slack in following your will."  
Lash.  
"Clear my eyes so I may see the path you have set before me."  
Lash.  
"I will fight until my last breath to defeat thine enemies, O Holy Sigmar."  
Lash.  
Saltzpyre now bent his head, touching the floor. Blood covered his back, and was pooling around his limbs.  
His body shivered, and he loathed the weakness of the flesh. It was not worthy of the Glory of Sigmar. Only his soul, if he was strong enough to follow through.  
The thoughts of his many failures; to save Ubersreik, that he ever believed that corrupt men could truly guide mankind and the Empire, that he had failed to eradicate all the Skaven, that he had ever trusted a witch . . .  
Thinking of his companions brought another pain to him, drawing his face into a grimace.  
Kruber, the foolish follower of Taal. Only Sigmar would save them.  
Kerillian, the selfish and fickle Elf. Her heathen gods would not avail her when the End came.  
Bardin, the loyal Dwarf. The only one amongst them who Sigmar would look on kindly.  
And worst of all, the foul witch. He tried not to think even of her name. She had tried to lead him off Sigmar's path, into the path of Chaos with her magicks. But she had failed, and in the end her own hell fires would consume her. True, she was ignorant even of her own failures, but that did not absolve her.  
Only blood and faith absolved.  
He raised back up, his back screaming with pain as he looked up at the azure-blue sky.  
"Hear me, O Sigmar! Hear your humble servant! I will fight the taint of Chaos with every ounce of my will for as long as I draw breath! In your example I go forward!"  
His lips curled now into a sneer. His former 'comrades' in the Order. Decadent fools, all! They denied the ancient Skaven enemy's mere existence, even after the bag of skulls he had brought them! Mutants did not have such regular shapes! And the pelts! And the eye-witness accounts, his own among them! The sworn testimonies of the Dwarves of Ubersreik, and Bardin's as well!  
And they had dismissed them all. There were no Ratmen. It had been an attack of a particularly short Beastmen tribe, nothing more.  
To hell with them all. Their lack of faith would lead them to perdition. Only those who were willing to sacrifice all would be saved.  
Sigmar willed it.


	13. Sienna Fuegonasus - Battle Wizard

Breathe in.  
Hold in the breath. Let the power grow within, let the air combine with Aqshy and turn to fire . . .  
Hold it until the time of your choosing, then let it come forth, the flame controlled. Precise, deadly.  
She could feel the flame within her. And as easily as she could grow the flame, so too could she snuff it out.  
It did die, reverted to the tiny spark that always lived within her. It balked, fought, wanted to get free and destroy. But it would obey. It would listen to her.  
Because she was in control.  
Sienna opened her eyes, and let her breath out. It could easily have been a gout of flame, but she was not afraid of it going loose.  
The ritual was one she had learned long ago in the Bright College. It wasn't precisely accurate to the traditions taught by Teclis of the High Elves generations ago to the founders of the College, but it worked for her.  
A deep part of her, the wild woman, hated and scorned such techniques and control. The flame was meant to be free! To burn swiftly and leave naught but ash in its wake!  
When she controlled it, though, when she used these ridiculous rituals, she could feel the difference, though. The flames grew hotter. She could cast longer, purge her body of the overheat of Aqshy quicker. Why, she could even ride the wind itself! Only for a moment, but when she did it was beyond anything else. To be one with Aqshy was a monumentally dangerous thing, and if her control slipped for even a moment, even she would be burned to ash by it.  
Ah, but to fly free and ride the fire, to burn everything in her path, to make even the most horrible of monsters recoil from her power . . .  
A smile curled her lips. She might be old, but she still had bite.  
And she wasn't that old, anyway. She was a perfectly fine age, for a wizard! There were still a lot of good years ahead of her, and after all of this . . . Skaven nonsense was through, she might go traveling again.  
Maybe to Kislev, she thought. But no, it was far too cold. Ooh, perhaps off to Ulthuan. Teclis still lived, she could pay him a visit . . .  
Control! She brought her thoughts back in line, feeling chagrined. It wasn't just Aqshy that went astray at times.  
It was almost the story of her life. She'd been going astray for most of it. In a way, the Skaven had helped her. After Ubersreik, she'd finally realized just how out of control she had become, how deeply into her addiction to the wind of fire she had sunk.  
Just because something was addictive, though, didn't mean it was all bad. Sometimes she found herself wondering if she could just walk away from it if she wanted. Could she really live like that?  
Yes, she reasoned. But what would be the point?


	14. Sienna Fuegonasus - Pyromancer

The jaws of the skull opened, almost like it was laughing.  
It wasn't a true skull, of course, but that didn't make the effect less amusing - or endearing. The skull was made of fire flame, conjured from Aqshy, from magic itself.  
"Sweet flame," Sienna cooed to it. "You will do great things, won't you?"  
It didn't answer her, of course - she wasn't insane! But she could imagine it cackling as it flew from her hands, burrowing and biting its way through the fleeing Skaven. They caught alight like tinder, their skin crackling and charring. The pathetic Skavenslaves didn't even have enough fat under their skin for it to pop. Had they not been such destructive monsters, she might even have felt bad for them.  
But, oh the rush of flames! She felt the wind of Aqshy flow through her body, filling her with the ecstasy of power. Others dreamed of great power, but she had it.  
Extending a hand, she let gouts of flame burst forth that engulfed a half-dozen of the monsters. Their screams were drowned out by the roar of flames, leaving the grass around them scorched and burning.  
She needed to rein herself in, she realized. Too much of a good thing - especially magic - wasn't good for one's constitution.  
Fighting with herself, she sought to control the flame and her own addiction. She could master herself, even if she would never again adhere to the strict teachings of the College.  
But she needed to know her limits. She could recall, not long ago, a day when the embers in her blood refused to dissipate, after intense spellcasting. She had kept her hands hidden, for it was a sure sign that she had been casting too much and too recklessly.  
It didn't mean she would accept the stifling rules and practices that the Bright College had attempted to instill in her. Those crushed her soul as much as an iron cage. Yet she couldn't deny that she could easily go too far. Natural talent could be easily surpassed by ambition.  
The Ratmen were broken and fleeing, her allies picking off the stragglers.  
Sienna took the time to let her head cool, to show she still have control. It was as much for her benefit as theirs. She knew Saltzpyre's entire purpose was to denounce her kind. Bardin and Kruber were never ones to trust magic so much. And Kerillian - well, that bag of mysteries was already well-acquainted with the pitfalls of magic.  
But it wasn't fear that made her keep herself under control, to avoid things that she knew deep down were too difficult to control with her level of discipline. She actually liked her companions, the poor darlings. They were good people . . . in a way. Well, maybe Kruber and Bardin, though she certainly couldn't deny her liking for Saltzpyre and even Kerillian. They had grown on her. Certainly a much better affliction than the Chaos tentacle on the back that Kruber worried about so often.  
The fire drained from her body, Aqshy flying free again, as was the nature of magic. She would ride that wind again, soon. So long as she didn't lose herself in it.


	15. Sienna Fuegonasus - Unchained

The fire flickered, crackled and popped, consuming the wood. Her eyes stared, unblinking, as the flames consumed her inside.  
Her blood was molten iron, her skin barely containing it.  
What power! What beauty! She could imagine that she could see the Winds of Magic as they flowed through her body. Thin, yet so strong, the tendrils of magic fire wound through the sky from the far north, swirling, winding, making their way.  
Just for her. She knew they were for her, because the strings came from miles around to seek her out. She was like the eye of needle, the point all the strands of power sought for.  
There was a mirror, old, dirty, and cracked. In its reflection, she could see her own eyes, glowing in the darkness of the blackened iron helm she wore. She hated it - a confining, cold thing, but without it she would become as immaterial as the fiery winds she so loved.  
And then how could she burn them all? The filthy ratmen, the pusculant Rotbloods . . . the only thing sweeter than the winds was seeing the real fires formed from her will and their power.  
Oh, yes, she wanted to see the ratties blacken and scorched, the thick black blood of theirs and the Rotbloods heating up until it boiled inside their skin, hear their screams and the crackle of their skin . . .  
Something about staring into her own eyes in that mirror bothered her. They never used to glow - but then, things had just never been like this.  
After Ubersreik . . . nothing was the same. Aqshy had been rising for a long time - but so had all the other winds. Now, it was beyond even that. More than she could ever have hoped for.  
And Gods it felt good.  
She had heard of other sorcerers and wizards and mages who glutted themselves so much on the power of the winds that they didn't just mutate, they dissolved. That wasn't going to happen to her, no no! Her will was so strong that not even the fires could melt it.  
Looking at her hands, she quietly knew that that was only so true. The fires danced under her skin. She normally only saw that after a period of intense casting - she hadn't used to see anything like it, not when she was younger. Was it a mark of mastery, of pushing herself beyond her old limits? Or was it a sign of her body weakening with age?  
Putting on the heavy bracers, she slowly wrapped the chains around them. They were only a little special, not Bardin's special gromril or covered in Sigmarite purity seals. But something about them still struck her as special. Perhaps they had once been part of something magical that had been melted down, or a blessed weapon.  
It didn't matter. Not even a little! They would do, yes.  
They were more symbolic than anything, the chains. Yes, but they would hold her together a little while longer.  
Yes, her days were numbered, it was true. But everyone died. Not everyone truly lived, not like her. The rush of the power was better than any lover, and delicacy, any wine.  
Her hands shook, but it was with happiness. The flames caressed her soul of iron, and she wanted to laugh at the irony as she chained herself up, for she was finally free.


End file.
